


I never tried to reach (your Eden)

by Lothiriel84



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Queerplatonic Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: Did I ever think of youI'm not complaining
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	I never tried to reach (your Eden)

Crowley moves to the South Downs early in the new year.

“Should probably leave this stupid island altogether,” he declares over a glass of 1891 Amontillado. “Eastbourne’s the next best thing, I suppose.”

(Aziraphale is reasonably sure he must be referring to that dreadful business with the referendum. He can’t honestly say he’s kept up to date with the entire debacle, what with the impending Armageddon and all that – but it does sound quite an unfortunate decision, all things considered. Still, he’s letting himself get more drunk than strictly necessary, and discussing international politics is very much at the bottom of the list of things he can cope with right now.)

The next morning, Crowley’s gone, and the bookshop has never felt that empty before, not even during the infamous century-long nap. When Aziraphale half-heartedly ushers out the last customer of the day, he has to physically stop himself from picking up the receiver and putting a call through to his friend – yes, that’s precisely what they still are, why ever wouldn’t they be? (It would be utterly ridiculous to suggest otherwise, now, wouldn’t it?)

 _You can take the demon out of London, but you can’t take London out of the demon_ – that’s what he would have claimed with unshakable certainty not a week ago. Except it’s starting to feel a lot like he doesn’t know anymore, about a great deal of things, come to that; but be it as it may, he’s prepared to give Crowley as much space as he needs, and twice more for good measure.

Heaven knows he deserves it – which is a figure of speech, obviously, because Heaven _not_ knowing about their business was rather the point, regardless of how much of a spectacularly poor job Aziraphale had done of it when it mattered the most. That’s what the Arrangement was all about – and quite possibly their earlier interactions, even, because quite frankly a demon should know better than to find shelter under an angel’s wing, and yet. Hereditary enemies, indeed – Someone up there must have quite an odd sense of humour, he’s starting to believe.

The point is, he muses as the last of the Amontillado obligingly manifests right before him – the point is that they’re on their own side now, and if Crowley’s way of being on the same side involves living eighty miles apart, who is Aziraphale to object? Eighty miles is nothing on the distance separating the Earth from Alpha Centauri, for instance; he can’t say he’s ever had an interest in astronomy before, but he does own quite a few first edition treatises on the subject, and it’s not as if he currently has much of anything better to do with his time, anyway.

By the end of January, he knows more about stars than he ever cared to learn about any other given subject, with the possible exception of book conservation and the history of delicacies across the ages. He was never among the number of those angels tasked with making them, but he knows Crowley was; he thinks Alpha Centauri must be one of his, but he dares not to dwell too much on that.

February opens with grey skies and a cacophony of mixed feelings pouring in from the streets – will the humans ever learn how to settle for a sensible course of action, he wonders in passing, even as he strives to tune out the onslaught of second-hand emotions altogether. And then it hits him, in between a cup of cocoa and yet another ancient tome on astronomy, that he’s no longer required to tolerate this state of affairs – by which he means, there’s no reason why he should allow himself to be miserable, not anymore.

He changes trains at Three Bridges, Crawley – which he chooses to read as an omens of good fortune, rather than the direct consequence of his limited grasp on the British railway system; it’s well into the evening when he finally reaches Eastbourne, and it’s only as he exits the railway station that it occurs to him he might have been exceptionally obtuse, and this is precisely what he should have done a month ago. Still, as they say, better late than never, which is kind of ironic when you think what a close call they had with the literal end of the world not even six months ago.

“Did you know this day marked the beginning of spring, according to the Celtic calendar?” Crowley observes by way of a greeting, knelt as he is amid the snowdrops flowerbeds. “Even if it’s only halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox.”

“A time for new beginnings,” he hears himself reply, hands clasped firmly behind his back.

A smile lights up Crowley’s face, brighter than any star he once helped hang up in the firmament. Gently, lovingly, he plucks a single snowdrop, offers it for Aziraphale to wear on the buttonhole of his jacket.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, warmly, their hands meeting in the space between them.


End file.
